


Nights Like This

by 14hpgirl19



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual John Watson, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots in Love, John Watson Returns to Baker Street, Love Confessions, M/M, No Mary, Parentlock, Sweet Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 12:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8532250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/14hpgirl19/pseuds/14hpgirl19
Summary: "There is something so domestic, so beautiful about this that makes him feel utterly content, even if seconds ago he’d been having the worst panic of his life. One might think that Sherlock Holmes with a baby is something that would seem unnatural, but this is perfect."What starts out as a nightmare for John ends up being the best night of his life. And, like most things that have happened to him, it's because of Sherlock.





	

John is in the process of sitting up when he realizes his room is too quiet.

It’s like clockwork: Every night, around 2:30, Penny will wake him up with her shrill cries, and John will get up to calm her down. It had gotten to the point where he woke automatically, before she even uttered a single whimper, which explains his wakefulness now.

But he hears nothing.

Outside the walls of the flat, he can make out the faints sounds of London. Cabs maneuvering the dark streets, drunk people stumbling home. If he concentrates hard enough, the creaking of floorboards would reach his ears. Still, no Penny.

Panic starting to rise within him, he shoves his covers off and hurries to Penny’s cot, situated in the corner of his bedroom. His heart leaps to his throat when he sees she isn’t there. Her favorite stuffed animal – a puppy – lies forgotten.

 _This can’t be happening,_ he thinks. _No, no, no…_

He flings the door to his bedroom open and starts downstairs. He doesn’t bother with the lights, partially due to his panic, but mostly because he knows his way around this flat blindfolded. Halfway down, he hears voices coming from the sitting room. Whoever it is, they are talking too quietly for John to make out anything.

His gun is still in his room. He could go grab it, but that would leave the risk of whoever is in the sitting room getting away. And if they are the ones with his daughter, he can’t let that happen.

There is only one voice. That much he’s certain of. He can overtake one man. He’s done it before. He just needs to maintain the element of surprise. He continues to inch down the stairs, taking care to avoid the particularly creaky steps. Skirting the landing by keeping close to the wall, he peers down. The door to the sitting room is cracked open, warm light spilling out.

The soldier in him calls for a plan, some method of attack, but the father in him shouts they have your _daughter,_ get in there and _save her._

The sight that greets him is not what he expected, but it is infinitely better. Sherlock is pacing the sitting room, his dressing gown fluttering out behind him as he moves. Cradled in his arms is Penny, fast asleep against his chest. His head is bent towards hers as he murmurs something John can’t hear.

John’s chest aches. There is something so domestic, so _beautiful_ about this that makes him feel utterly content, even if seconds ago he’d been having the worst panic of his life. One might think that Sherlock Holmes with a baby is something that would seem unnatural, but this is perfect.

“What are you doing up?” Sherlock looks surprised to see John standing there, as if John hadn’t moved back in two months ago and doesn’t live there. He still speaks in a low voice for the sake of the baby, and John’s chest aches more. It takes him a moment to formulate a reply.

“Penny normally wakes up at this time,” he says.

“I know, that’s why I took the liberty of getting her tonight.” Sherlock’s eyes sweep over John. “You haven’t been getting much sleep lately. I thought you might want to get through the night without waking up.”

After Mary died, John needed somewhere to go. Staying in the house he’d lived in with her felt wrong. Of course, he didn’t have to look long for a place, because Sherlock insisted he move back into Baker Street. John tried to object, since he had a child now, and Sherlock hadn’t signed up for one. But Sherlock refused.

_"You’re coming back to Baker Street and that’s final,” he said. “Your old bedroom is just gathering dust. You might as well use it.”_

_"But I have Penny, Sherlock,” John argued, shifting his daughter in his arms. “I can’t ask you to take her on too.”_

_Sherlock looked at the little girl wiggling on John’s lap. His expression softened. “You’re not asking. I’m insisting. Let me help you.”_

John had been unable to say no after that, and within twenty-four hours he and Penny had been installed in 221B.

He isn’t delusional enough to think Penny being there hasn’t disrupted Sherlock’s life exponentially. He can’t leave experiments or toxic materials out in the open. He can’t play the violin in the middle of the night. He certainly can’t shoot at the walls whenever he gets bored. The life Sherlock once lived is gone, and John had expected him to make much more of a fuss.

But instead, Sherlock took it all in stride. John only had to ask him once to get rid of the body parts in the kitchen cabinets. The next time he walked into the kitchen, he found it sanitized and restocked with food. Sherlock compiled a list of songs that Penny seemed to like and would play some throughout the day depending on her mood. He never complained about her crying, never scowled at her, and never made any snide comments about her drooling.

In short, he welcomed her into the flat like she was his own.

And now, _now_ he has designated himself to tend to her when she wakes up in the middle of the night so John can sleep.

John is madly in love with him.

He has been aware of this for some time. Since the Irene Adler case, to be exact, but he suspects the feelings had been there for much longer. He has long since accepted that he is bisexual, but it’s rare for him to find a man that he really likes. But when Sherlock waltzed into his life, with his billowing coat and messy curls and high cheekbones, John was a goner.

Putting his feelings aside for the sake of their friendship had been easier than he thought, aided by the fact that Sherlock didn’t seem to care about romance. It wouldn’t have worked anyway, John sharing his feelings. So it was best to just let them be. There were times when he could feel them start to bubble up, like when Sherlock returned from the dead, or when he made a vow to John at his wedding. Or when Sherlock was nearly taken away from him again, and the genius had cracked a joke that has haunted John ever since.

_"Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”_

For one second, John had let himself hope that Sherlock would say those famous three words. It almost seemed like he would, and John would finally be allowed to let go and reveal all. But he didn’t, and John had to continue to keep everything inside.

But now, _now,_ seeing Sherlock hold his daughter so tenderly and carefully, all John wants to do was kiss him until he can’t breathe.

“Thank you. That was kind of you,” John says, far too late to be casual. “Though I’ve rather mucked it up now, haven’t I?”

Sherlock shrugs, the movement slow and deliberate so as to not wake Penny. “You could always go back to bed.”

The thought of his mattress and warm blankets seems appealing, but not much as staying downstairs with Sherlock and Penny.

With his family.

He sits down in his chair and settles against the cushions. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. Justifying his actions feels pointless, so he doesn’t. Sherlock probably understands anyway.

Sherlock resumes his pacing, and John simply watches. The soft lamplight casts a glow over Sherlock that makes him look angelic. John would laugh at the thought if he doesn’t secretly think Sherlock is his personal angel.

There is something _right_ about this whole situation. It should be jarring, out of place for Sherlock to care for Penny so late at night, and John should be bored watching his friend walk back and forth across the sitting room. But instead, it feels perfect. Like this is what they are meant to do, for the rest of their lives. Sherlock and John and Penny. An odd, magnificent little family.

This is the life John wants. A mixture of domesticity (courtesy of Penny) and excitement (courtesy of Sherlock). That’s exactly what they are, John realizes. The two people he loves most in the world symbolize two different lives, two lives that when combined result in something that John wants so badly, something mind-numbingly beautiful.

These are dangerous thoughts though. He can dream in this moment that he and Sherlock are together, that Sherlock is Penny’s father too, and that when Sherlock puts her back to bed, he and John will retire to the same bed in the same room. But that’s not what will happen, and any dream John concocts that suggests it would is false and will only hurt him in the end.

But what a dream it is. Surely a single second, one little dip into it wouldn’t be too bad…

“I think she can go back to her cot now.” Sherlock’s voice startles John from his thoughts, and he looks up like a child caught doing something naughty. The image of him and Sherlock curling up in bed, heads tucked under chins, fingers spread across backs, dissipates within a second.

"Sorry?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I think she’ll sleep through the night now. You can bring her back upstairs, if you’d like.”

 _I wouldn’t like,_ John thinks. He isn’t ready for the fantasy to end. But, would he ever be ready?

“Oh,” he says. “Um, sure.” He stands and takes his daughter from Sherlock, ignoring the way their hands brush when they make the careful transfer, or how close he is to him (close enough to feel his breath on John’s cheek).

Once Penny is safely in John’s arms, Sherlock turns away, moving to the cluttered table. The warmth in John’s chest is quickly fading, the moment slipping away faster than he can process. Desperation wells up within him, the need to keep this precious moment alive nearly consuming him. Sherlock sits at the table and starts rifling through his papers. It’s clear he expects John to leave, and might even _want_ him to.

But things had been so _perfect._ He can’t let it go.

“She didn’t give you any trouble, then?”

Sherlock stills his movements, his eyes sliding from the papers to John. It’s difficult maintaining a neutral expression, but John is excellent at putting on a good face.

“No,” Sherlock replies. “She was an angel, as usual.”

Just hearing Sherlock call his daughter an angel sends a surge of happiness through John. “Except for the part where she wakes up at 2:30 every morning.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twists up. “Except for that.”

Their eyes stay locked on each other’s, neither wavering for a second. John’s mouth is dry when he speaks next.

“Thank you.”

“You said that already.”

“I don’t just mean for this.”

John hadn’t meant to get this serious tonight, but like everything else about this beautiful night, it feels right. It’s something he needs to say, something Sherlock needs to hear.

“Then what for?” Whether he realizes it or not, Sherlock’s body turns ever so slightly so he’s facing more towards John. It gives John a sense of satisfaction, the knowledge that a part of Sherlock is drawn to him.

“For being so good with Penny. You’ve been nothing short of wonderful since we moved in, and it means a great deal to me.”

Sherlock shrugs, though his cheeks hold a reddish tint. “She’s a remarkable girl. It’s easy to care for her.”

“I thought you didn’t care for children.”

“She’s different.”

Again, the surge of happiness, though John fails to see what makes Penny stand out from the other millions of babies in the world. At least, he doesn’t understand why _Sherlock_ feels that way. John knows his daughter is the most perfect child to have ever been conceived, beautiful beyond all measure, so on and so forth. But he is her father. Of course he would think that way.

“Careful,” John says, his voice taking on a teasing lilt that will hopefully hide its shakiness. “If people hear you say that, they might think you’re her father.”

“Would that be the worst thing in the world?”

John is undone. The synapses in his brain explode, his stomach drops to his feet, every cliché falls upon him in that single moment.

He turns on his heel and walks straight out of the sitting room. Up the stairs, into his bedroom, over to the cot in the corner where he gently lays Penny down. Makes a quick stop at his nightstand to pick up the baby monitor sitting there before returning downstairs.

Sherlock hasn’t moved. The faint blush on his cheeks is gone, and his eyes are stuck on the doorway. They widen almost imperceptibly when John reappears. He hadn’t expected him to come back.

For a moment, neither of them speak. Then the quiet becomes too unbearable for John, and he says the first thing that comes to mind.

“What were you going to say?”

Sherlock blinks. For once, the genius brain, the powerhouse, has slowed to a stop.

“What?”

John swallows, steels himself. “On the tarmac. The day you were supposed to leave for Eastern Europe. I know there was something else you wanted to say to me. What was it?”

The exchange – almost their final one – is never far from John’s mind. He has replayed it countless times, turned it over and over in his head like an old television program.

_“John, there’s something I should say… I meant to say always and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”_

He’d played it off as a joke, something to make John laugh in such a heart-wrenching time. But John can’t shake the feeling there was something else hidden in those words.

“Why are you asking me this now?” Sherlock doesn’t betray anything. His words are focused, his face clean of any emotion. “It’s been months.”

“Because I’m tired of not knowing. Just tell me, Sherlock. Please.”

There’s a crack in Sherlock’s perfect mask. His eyes flicker, looking downward. It makes John’s heartbeat speed up.

“If I do,” Sherlock says, “you have to promise it won’t change anything.”

His stomach swoops. “What if I want it to change?”

Sherlock misunderstands. “I won’t be able to live with myself knowing I ruined our friendship. It’s the most important thing to me, John, surely you must know that by now. Nothing has to change.”

John licks his lips. “Tell me what you were going to say.”

Sherlock’s eyes – his enigmatic, gorgeous eyes – flutter around the room. John’s heart is one pulse away from bursting from his chest. The flat is deathly silent, its own little bubble separate from the ambient hum of the city.

“I love you.”

Sherlock’s eyes had landed on John right as he said it, and John has never been prouder.

He’s been dreaming of this for so long that he can hardly figure out how he’s supposed to actually respond to it. Of course, most the scenarios he devised in his head involved a post-case adrenaline high, or a near-death incident. They didn’t include a far too quiet flat and a baby monitor clutched in his sweaty hand.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice, normally strong and confident, is small and tentative. It makes John ache. Sherlock shouldn’t sound like that, ever. It’s wrong.

“It’s about bloody time.” The monitor makes a thudding noise that, in the silent flat, sounds like a hundred pound weight hit the floor as John drops it. Crossing the room in two strides, he brings his head down and crushes his lips to Sherlock’s. His fingers knot themselves in Sherlock’s curls, and John almost cries because he’s wanted to do that for so long. Sherlock’s mouth parts in a breathy gasp, his eyes momentarily widening in surprise before they drift shut.

The angle is awkward, as Sherlock is still sitting, but John quickly remedies that by dropping onto Sherlock’s lap. Arms come up to encircle him, keeping him from falling onto the ground.

Sherlock’s lips are soft, and John can’t resist parting them with a gentle nudge from his tongue. Sherlock makes a little whimpering noise that John wants to hear on repeat for an eternity. The taste of him fills John with a heady feeling he hasn’t experienced in a very long time. He could spend the rest of his life kissing this man.

Apparently, however, Sherlock does not feel the same way.

It takes John several seconds to realize Sherlock has turned away, separating their lips. John tries to connect them once more, but Sherlock jerks his head back, sending a pang of fear and sadness through John. He lets his hands fall from Sherlock’s hair and pulls himself up from his lap.

 _Good job, Watson,_ he thought. _Real good job there._

“I’m sorry,” he says roughly, looking at anything but the still-seated genius. “I just – I thought -”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Sherlock says, catching John off-guard. He shakes his head.

“I shouldn’t have – done that,” John admits. “I should’ve asked you if it was alright. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“I _said_ you don’t have to apologize.”

John huffs out a breath, the happy glow that had settled over him while they were kissing officially gone. And the night had started out so beautifully.

“Fine,” John snaps. “Just forget about it. About all of it.” He walks back to the baby monitor and picks it up. It’s still blessedly silent, though he supposes it doesn’t matter whether or not Penny wakes up. He doubts he’ll be getting much sleep tonight.

“Wait.” Sherlock’s voice stops him when he’s in the doorway. John rolls his shoulders back and turns around. Sherlock is standing now, his fingers twisting together as he tries to piece together a sentence. John waits, resisting the urge to flee upstairs.

“That was – I mean that I – you don’t have to -” Sherlock clenches his eyes shut and growls. “That was good. Really good. I – enjoyed it. And I don’t want to forget about it, though I doubt I could even if I did.” He opens his eyes and looks at John.

“Then why did you stop?”

Sherlock drops his gaze to the floor. “I was overwhelmed. I’ve never – I mean, I _have_ , but never in that way.” He swallows. “Never with someone who means as much to me as you do.”

“Oh,” John says. He turns the baby monitor over in his hands. “I see.”

Sherlock’s lower lip disappears into his mouth, and his eyes are bigger than John’s ever seen them, except for perhaps the moment Sherlock first met Penny. It had taken John’s breath away then, and it does the same now.

“I’m sorry if I’ve ruined this,” Sherlock says. “I had a feeling I would.”

“You haven’t ruined anything,” John insists. He can already feel the fizzy happiness returning. “We can go slower if that would make you feel better.”

“Slower?” Sherlock looks so timid and unsure, and John just wants to wrap him in his arms and kiss his fears away. “You’d be okay with that?”

“Of course I would, you beautiful idiot. That’s why I said it.” John grins and sets the baby monitor down on the coffee table. He approaches Sherlock and takes his hands. “Because you mean a great deal to me too, and I don’t want to mess this up. So if you need slow, we’ll go slow.”

Sherlock’s eyes shine, and John can’t tell if it’s the lamplight or something else. He pries one of his hands from John’s and tentatively touches his cheek. John leans into it, comforted by its warmth.

“What about Penny?” Sherlock asks.

“What about her?”

“Well.” Uncertainty flashes on his face. “What will she think, her father being in a romantic relationship with his flatmate?”

A chuckle escapes John before he can stop it. “She’s not even a year old, Sherlock. It’s going to be a while before she understands. We don’t have to worry about it just now.” He turns his head and kisses Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock’s breath stutters.

“Oh. Alright.”

"Though for the record,” John continues, praying this doesn’t frighten Sherlock. “I couldn’t pick a better person to be her other parent.”

Sherlock’s lips part. John just keeps smiling at him, and after a few seconds, he smiles back. That gives John the courage to inch forward and push himself up on his toes. He raises an eyebrow, and, at Sherlock’s tiny nod, presses their lips together.

Whereas before, their kisses were heated and urgent, now they’re slow and loving. John feels Sherlock relax, and he brings a hand up to curve loosely around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock tilts his head down so John doesn’t have to stay on his toes, and John makes a soft noise of approval.

A cooing noise bubbles up before blossoming into a wail, and the two men separate, looking towards the baby monitor. Upstairs, Penny’s cries grow in urgency. John lets his head fall against Sherlock’s chest.

“To be continued,” John murmurs. Sherlock draws a hand up his back, and he shivers with pleasure.

“Go take care of your daughter.” Sherlock offers him a little smile and steps away. John watches him go, wanting desperately to pull him close again. Instead, he picks the baby monitor up and makes for the door.

Once in the doorway, he pauses and looks back. Sherlock is already sitting at the table, pretending to look focused on the papers in front of him. But John can see that his eyes don’t have that sharpness that indicates he’s concentrating, and his whole body is looser than normal.

Penny’s only gotten louder, so John pulls himself together and goes upstairs. He picks her up from her cot and shushes her, rocking her in his arms.

“What’s wrong, little one?” he whispers. “What’s making you cry?”

Normally, he’d just pace his bedroom before setting her back in her cot. Tonight, however, he walks back downstairs. Sherlock must’ve heard them coming down, because he’s standing by the time they reach the sitting room.

“Does she need a bottle?” he asks, and John hearts sings.

“No, I don’t think so,” he replies. “I just thought she might want to come back down here.”

Sherlock watches as he moves over to the couch and carefully sits down. He adjusts Penny in his arms, shushing her once more before looking up at Sherlock. He nods to the empty space next to him, and Sherlock’s eyes widen. After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock joins them.

John kisses Penny’s head as she starts to quiet. She curls up against John’s chest, her tiny hand grasping his shirt. He lets out the kind of contented sigh only his daughter can draw from him and leans against Sherlock. The other man stiffens before relaxing.

“I just thought she’d like to be with her family,” John murmurs.

Sherlock starts to move his arm, and John worries he’s pushed too far once again. But then he feels Sherlock’s arm settle over his shoulders, and he thinks he could get used to nights like this. Sherlock’s voice is soft and clogged with emotion when he speaks.

“Quite right.”


End file.
